


Could've Been

by totilott



Series: A Groovy Kind of Love [18]
Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League International (Comics)
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Survivor Guilt, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totilott/pseuds/totilott
Summary: Grief is a complex thing.





	Could've Been

Out of breath, Ted pushes the door open, revealing the backs of about thirty people seated in front of him. At the end of the room, facing them all, stands a soberly dressed woman addressing the crowd.

Damn. Damn, it’s already started.

Even now he had to let Scott down one last time.

He shuffles to a free seat at the back while a few people glance at him, then turn back to the speaker.

“...A loving husband, a generous friend, a hero to anyone in need. The world is a poorer place today, a place --”

There’s something awkwardly stuck in his suit jacket pocket, something that prevents it from folding as he sits, and he quickly slips his hand in to investigate. It’s his yarmulke. Last worn at his cousin Merv’s funeral, what, three years ago? Shit. This suit that only gets brought out when someone dies. How many funerals has it been to by now? He looks at the congregation. Black suits, black dresses, black skirts. A collection of clothes to be cried in, pockets for holding tissues that were bought four funerals ago.

It’s all so absurd.

He sits up. He should pay attention.

"It's hard to find comfort in a meaningless accident, one that marks the lives of so many so deeply," the woman continues gently. "All we can do is appreciate the love, the fondness that becomes so clear, so encompassing, when friends come together to mourn a great, loving person like Mister Miracle, Scott Free."

Ted sets his jaw, his eyes drawn to the closed white coffin at the end of the room. Shit, did they even find anything to bury? After the explosion, how much of Scott where they able to --

He swallows, looking down at his hands.

His fault.

He frowns, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. _Don’t go there. Don’t come apart over this, here._ He couldn’t have known. Of course he couldn’t have known. This is the risk they all take, in this business. They all know that any moment their luck might run out. Every hero is living on borrowed time. Every person in this room might be next.

Ted looks up, recognizing so many of his friends and colleagues, even in civilian clothes, just from the back of their heads. Any one of them could be next. At some point every one, himself included, _will_ be the next.

His eyes are drawn to a particular figure seated a few rows ahead. He imagined he hadn’t noticed when he came in, but just the height, the shape, the particular curve where that strong neck meets the shoulders, those are instantly recognizable to his subconscious, almost more than the finely shorn blonde hair.

Booster, too, could be next. Even more at risk now, probably, with an unproven team to lead. Unfamiliar heroes with unfamiliar powers. No one to _(protect him)_ support him, not like his friends could and did.

He’s never seen Booster in that black suit before, though. It’s probably brand new. Booster so recent to this time, this might even be his first funeral here. Wait. No. His sister. His sister died in this time. Did he wear that suit then? Is that grief threaded through the fabric of that suit, painful associations lying in wait, ready to spring forward the moment it wraps around his body, like Ted's black suit holds a collection of griefs from countless funerals?

How many more times will Booster don that new black suit in respect for another friend who’s gone, another team mate whose luck ran out?

The alternative is worse, of course. Not being able to collect friends’ funerals like playing cards because... Because _you yourself_ were the one who ran out of time, out of luck.

Ted exhales through his nose, noting how unfamiliar the sight of Booster in black is. He’s so... _bright_, so fair, a beam of light wrapped in black. So alive surrounded by death and pain. Ted’s eyes fixate on the fine white hairs down Booster’s neck, the soft skin behind his ear that he knows is soft because he’s pressed his lips against it, long ago. Wrapped his arms around a body so warm and outrageously _alive_.

_For God’s sake, Ted. This is a fine way to pay respects to Scott._

He wipes his face with a restless palm. Attuning his ears to follow the woman at the front, speaking of Scott’s passion for cooking, for electronics, his love of gadgets both simplistically earth-based and impossible complex, from his own world.

It’s hard to remember Scott’s an alien. He’s always been just... a regular guy. Not like J’onn, not like, like Starfire, or any of the others. Maybe it was just an act, a way to behave, to fit in. Maybe it's because his skin wasn't green or blue or mauve. But Scott’s always had that down-to-earth way about him. Even though he was an alien. Even though he was a god.

Ted lifts his gaze, scanning the walls of the small chapel they’re in. He notices where there are naked nails in the middle of the walls, probably to hang the symbols of whatever denomination the deceased belonged to. Nothing hanging there now. What did Scott believe in? What do you believe in when you’re a god yourself? Is it blasphemous to acknowledge the guy you used to eat ravioli next to in the kitchen was a god?

It never felt like Scott was a god.

He was just Scott.

_Add that to my list of accomplishments,_ Ted thinks grimly to himself. _I managed to get a god killed._

“And finally,” the woman (what is she? A priest? Shaman? A public speaker for hire?) announces with a sad smile. “In lieu of a speech, Scott’s wife Barda wishes to play Scott’s favorite song. A song that was comforting, and life-affirming to Scott, too, in difficult times. Maybe we can find comfort in it now.”

She steps away from the podium and there’s an expectant silence in the crowd, like they’re all holding their breath, waiting for some final revelation, something starkly meaningful, that makes sense of it all. A jangly keyboard plays from the speakers.

_“Jeremiah was a bullfrog...”_

There’s a ripple of soft laughter that spreads through the congregation.

_“...Was a good friend of mine -- I never understood a single word he said but I helped him drink his wine...”_

Ted too closes his eyes and giggles softly. Scott and his undying love of seventies’ folk rock. You could never go in his car without hearing The Byrds or Creedence blaring. Tapping his fingers on the wheel to the beat, softly singing along under his breath.

“_...Singin’ joy to the world, all the boys and girls, joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me...”_

Ted swallows. It’s so stupid. It’s so _stupid_ that Scott is gone. That you can be alive one moment, married, happy, and then your idiot teammate switches places with you in the ship and you die. Your stupid, worthless teammate who’s not even a god. Not close to a god, just a fat asshole from Chicago.

_“...If I was the king of the world, tell you what I’d do...”_

There’s fond murmuring in the crowd, gentle chuckles as people whisper and share thoughts, memories. And there’s something more -- soft sobbing, and Ted sees the back of Barda’s head as she stoops forward, face in hands, shoulders trembling.

_“...I’d throw away the cars and the bars and the war, and make sweet love to you...”_

What’s it like, becoming so hauntingly alone, from one day to the next? Coming home to -- to your _home_, the space you created for the both of you, and then one of you is gone forever? Just yourself and the emptiness that will never be filled again?

They were so happy together. So absurdly happy, even Ted could tell though he was never among Barda's favourites. They fit together so natually, so completely, there was no... No gap of any kind between them. Scott and Barda, where one ended the other began.

He can hear Barda’s soft crying over the music, and his chest hurts with every heartbeat, like his heart is wrapped in cold hard spikes.

And he knows he'll have to live the rest of his life knowing he caused this.

_“...Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me...”_

* * *

There’s another wave of soft murmuring as people get to their feet when the formalities are over, and as they turn to exit, Ted can see their faces, drawn and pale with grief. He sees Ralph slide a comforting hand around Sue and speak softly into her ear. He sees Tora’s delicate face streaked with tears. Dmitri. Wally. Wonder Woman. A lot of faces he’s not familiar with as well, at least unmasked.

Ted’s mouth tastes sour. Do they blame him like he blames himself?

People file past, demurely slowing by the door to shake Barda’s and Oberon’s hands. Ted lingers, trying to gather the courage. He even showed up late. Selfishly burst in when the service had already started. Maybe he shouldn’t have come at all.

His fault.

He can’t sleep for thinking about it. That’s why he was late, of course, a fitful sleep finding him at last, a final betrayal to Scott. A week of sleeplessness after the accident and then on the fucking day of the funeral, he almost misses it because he was snoozing like a baby.

He looks up just in time to see Booster gently taking hold of Barda’s hand with both hands and say something to her. She makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and sob, and next thing she pulls him in and hugs him hard. Long.

Ted feels the edges of his mouth pull back in a sad smile. That’s Booster for you. So unconcerned with stifling social rules, just -- just empathetic and warm and...

Booster’s a good guy.

Sure, he quit the League in the most dramatic and unnecessary fashion imaginable, and they haven't seen hide nor hair of him since, but maybe... Maybe he turned his back on the League as a... As a concept. Maybe he turned his back on the frustration, the hierarchy. Not the people.

_Maybe he didn't turn his back on_ me.

Ted finally finds a place at the end of the line of people, a restless worry in the bottom of his stomach.

Life’s too short, right?

Either one of them could be next, and then their principles, their petty fight, wouldn’t be worth a damn.

That’s what he’ll do. He’ll walk up to Booster out there in the graveyard, they’ll talk. Then after everything's done here they’ll go somewhere, have a beer, talk some more. And Ted can finally tell someone, tell his best friend, that Scott died because of him. And Booster can be the voice of reason, that voice that sounds so feeble in Ted’s own mind, that he couldn’t have known. That switching places with someone isn’t murder.

He knows it himself too, but... But it’s been hard to convince himself. Hard to brush it off when everything's a reminder, when the consequences are this life changing. He needs help. To convince himself. And then he can hear how Booster’s new team is coming along. Where he’s staying. What’s happened after he left the Embassy. And they can be a team again.

It’ll be nice.

He shakes Oberon’s hand, so formal. So meaningless in the scope of things. Oberon doesn’t meet his eyes, just frowns, shaking another hand, another person following meaningless social protocol.

“I, uh, I really, uh --” Ted begins, immediately unsure of what to say. No more words will out when he sees the grief in Oberon’s red tinged eyes.

Next is Barda, the sun from outside catching the streaks of tears on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Ted tells her as he shakes her hand. And it sounds like meaningless protocol too, but he means it more than anything. _I’m sorry I switched places with Scott, I’m sorry I left him in the ship. I’m sorry he was the one caught in the explosion and not me._

Her lips pull back in something almost like a smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you,” she mutters in a voice hoarse from crying and lets go of his hand.

Now Ted is outside, in the sunshine, in the crisp morning air. There are birds singing, unaware of how ill-fitting their presence is in an place such as this. It should rain on funerals. There should be graying skies and distant thunder when someone decent has died. Not a world full of life and light and energy.

Ted stands for a moment, blinking in the light, searching the small groups of mourners standing around waiting for the final walk to the grave.

He sees a tall broad back a little way off, blonde hair almost white in the early morning sun, and something inside him feels a little better. _Something_ good will come of all this. He’ll tell Booster... Tell Booster he doesn’t care what happened between them. Or if -- If Booster cares, Ted will apologize. _Really_ apologize, because it’s all so meaningless. Ridiculous. Spending their days on earth mad and upset at each other, when death lurks behind every corner.

Maybe they can’t skip straight back to where they were. That’s okay. That’s okay, they can start with a beer. Start with a conversation, a real conversation without shouting, without childishly lashing out.

And in time maybe they can be fine. Fine together again.

Because life really, _really_ is too short.

He approaches Booster, whose broad, familiar back is facing him. He hears Booster talk to that dark-haired girl, the sweet one who was in the Justice League before them. Gypsy.

“...This new team,” he hears Booster mutter, head bowed down to her ear. “I mean, the money’s good. The benefits are _great_. And, you know, you’ll be treated with respect. Everyone will, not like -- like it used to be. So, what I mean, if you’re interested I can --”

“You fucking _snake!”_ Ted exclaims, and he can’t tell exactly what happens between Booster turning around, surprise in his eyes, and then Booster on the ground, cradling his cheek, but Ted’s body feels like a live wire, crackling with furious energy.

“Wha --” The noise out of Booster’s mouth is more like a gasp. _“Ted!”_

“That’s the only reason you came, huh?” Ted hisses, fists still clenched. “So you can snatch up more people for your vanity project? Even I didn't think you were _this_ shameless, hustling at your friend's funeral.” He can see Booster open his mouth, but he refuses to pause. “You goddamned sleazebucket, don’t even have the decency to wait until Scott’s _in the fucking ground_ \--” At that Ted’s voice breaks, and the breath hitches in his throat. A nice little gathering of potential team members, right? All with their guards down, ready to hear the sales pitch.

_I thought he was your friend too. I thought you were mine._

“I -- I wasn’t --” Booster stutters, still seated on the ground, looking up at him with wide blue eyes. “I really -- I didn’t mean --”

“You don’t deserve to be here,” Ted hisses, that electric energy in him finding no other outlet now than his voice. “You know that. And you knew when you just, just quit on us we’d end up paying for it somehow. Well, here we are, Booster. Here we _fucking_ are.”

Booster looks away, drawing a ragged breath. Eyes wide, brow knotted. He breathes quickly, chest rising and falling, in, out, in, out. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs thinly at last.

“Yeah, you tell Scott you’re sorry, Booster. Tell -- tell Barda. You absolute -- You --!” At that, Ted’s suddenly run out of steam.

The anger is there, the hurt is there, but he can’t find another goddamned word to say, not without crying, not without all the hurt spilling out, so he turns and walks away. Refusing to look back, refusing to even hear if Booster has something to say for himself. Just walks away, breath held in his chest until it feels like it’s going to explode, holds his breath to stop even a choked sob from coming out, as he walks around the little chapel, away from his friends and colleagues and other mourners, and turns the corner right next to the fence.

He casts a wild glance around him to make sure absolutely no one can see him, and covers his face with his hands. Leaning his back, his full weight against the cold brick wall, he slides down until he sits low, resting on his heels, pressing his hands against his face, and he almost manages to stop himself from crying.

**Author's Note:**

> This conflict getting you down? Remember you can [VOTE](https://strawpoll.com/4xzwbygd) for what kind of silly shenanigans I should write for Booster and Ted once this arc is concluded!
> 
> Okay so this part was hard to write because I genuinely think the original funeral issue of JLI is beautifully written. The emotional complexities -- they're already in there, man. I'm just trying to elaborate.
> 
> Scott's love for folk rock, though? That's all me. Because listen, essentially a carnie whose glory days were in the seventies? That equals folk rock to me, bud.
> 
> **[Song:](https://open.spotify.com/user/tilly_stratford/playlist/4SqomvmhyncWPEAobYUZ88?si=DNXWufsLSs29KqRywW2U9A)**  
Joy to the world - Three Dog Night  
Could've Been - Tiffany


End file.
